The training hall was spacious but plain. Wooden floors bore faint grooves from countless clashes, and racks of dulled practice swords lined the walls.
A few other swords and weapon lay in a corner. A few scattered dummies stood in another, their straw stuffing spilling out from years of abuse.
Dust lingered in the beams overhead, though the air still carried the faint tang of sweat and iron.
Darian stepped forward into the platform, stretching.
His body aching.
'What?, I haven't even started yet and my body is already paining'.
His thoughts carried a weight of realization.
Realization of how weak and fragile his body actually is.
Darian walked towards the walls.
He scanned the collection of swords. Most were rusty and blunt. Many were broken or just unusable.
One stood out.
A thin, light and long type sword. It was similar to the katana he had used in his past life.
He picked it up, studying the blade.
His grip tightened around the hilt.
It felt strange at first. The weight of the sword seemed heavier than in his past life.
He raised the blade, let his breath steady and closed his eyes.
He had memorized all the swings and movement of the enemies in his last battle from his pastlife.
First Principle of the Crimson Veil Swordstyle- Perfect Memory.
Memorize the opponents every move. Every swing, pivot, footwork, movements down to last detail
This allows perfect counterplay and in some cases, perfect replica. This takes decades to master.
Darian opened his eyes, visualizing the battlefield set before him.
Then he swung .
The first swing cut clean through the air, sharp and controlled. The next followed without pause, flowing like one note into another. Each strike carried rhythm, his footwork falling in perfect time with the blade.
Trying to dogde all the attacks he took in the battle.
The steel flashed in arcs like drifting petals carried by the wind. His cuts were neither rushed nor wasted. It was perfect. Every motion bloomed into the next with quiet inevitability.
His rhythm was perfect, a song without flaw.
To Elaina watching, it was not swordplay but a dance. Each movement painted the air with fleeting beauty, petals scattering with every swing, until the hall itself seemed to move with him.
Her mind filled with questions.
'How?'
'How is Young master this good with a sword, is he a genius?'
When the final stroke ended, Darian lowered the sword to his side. His chest heaved. The rhythm broke, not from a mistake, but from his body reaching its limit. His arms trembled.
His lungs struggling to find breath. His clothes drenched in sweat.
What once had been endless flow now left him spent after only a handful of forms.
"Elaina, please bring me water"
"Yes, young lord "
She bowed quickly before sprinting out of the room at his command
'This body is weak', Darian slowly caught his breath. Wiping his sweat.
'I can only keep up perfect form for only a short time' Darian sulked.
.
.
A slow clap echoed across the empty hall.
The sound carried until Sir Aldren Veynar appeared in the doorway. His armor gleamed beneath the torchlight, marked with the sigil of crown and duke ,the unmistakable bearing of a Royal Knight of Redmond.
He was the second strongest to the Duke. He was in his early forties. He had black with strands of white hair.
There were scars on his face from the battles he had fought in his prime.
His presence carried weight, the kind that made men avert their eyes and hold their tongues.
He stopped a short distance away, his gaze fixed on Darian. The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips, sharp and mocking.
"Lord Darian," he said smoothly, the title spoken with rigid formality, yet the tone beneath it cut like steel.
"I did not expect to find you here… holding a blade."
"This is no place for a child nor a place to throw one of your tantrums"
'Tantrums?' Darian thought to himself.
'Oh Darian, the shame you leave with me is far too great'
"Im training, is there a problem?" Darian responded, sizing the knight.
"Training?"
"Don't tell me you actually believe you can wield a blade?" Sir Aldren mocks
"Without mana, ..you won't be able to stand on the same ground as an average swordman"
'That's right,... this world uses mana and i possess none' the thought struck Darian.
'WAIT.. what is mana, does it really matter.... I didn't have it in my past life, I don't need it now'
'How much difference does it make... and ..How is mana even used in swordplay?'
His mind flooded with questions, he didn't have answers for ,yet he knew how to get them.
"How about we spar then?"
Darian raised his practice sword and pointed it toward the knight.
"Spar?", Sir Aldren laughed in disbelief, "You wish to spar with me?"
"Yeah, I could use a little stretching" Darian answered.
"Stretching?"
With a scoff, Aldren reached for the hilt at his side. Steel whispered as he drew his blade, its edge shimmering faintly with a pale light. Mana pulsed through the weapon, humming in resonance until the air itself seemed to quiver around it.
"Ready yourself then"
Darian did not flinch. His gaze followed the blade, but his expression remained unreadable, calm in the face of the knight's power. He stepped forward, loosening his shoulders.
Sir Aldren's eyes narrowed. "Confidence, is it? Let us see how long it lasts." He shifted his stance, blade angled low, mana flickering like heat against the wooden floor.
Darian raised his hands to the sash at his side, fingers gripping the weight of his practice blade.
"I said I needed stretching," he murmured. "Not a lecture."